On Unions Civil and Otherwise
by Kita-Ysabell
Summary: Ten years have passed- ten years to the day- and when Utena and Anthy's engagement party goes somewhat awry, Saionji finds that some things are not so easily forgotten, and faces the bitter possibility that to make good his escape from Ohtori, he must rescue his oldest and closest friend- whether that friend wants to be rescued or not.
1. The Engagement Party

"It's the twenty-first goddamn century, you know. You can sleep with your friends."

The years had changed Juri; she was less elegance and more force. She swore and wore her hair short and tossed her head back when she laughed.

"Wish I could've seen it sooner, I put so much energy into being in love." She smiled, sadly. "Of course it was all wasted. And I must've been a terrible friend."

Miki started to sputter some sort of protest, but Juri waved him aside, and he fell silent with the air of one who lived most of his life behind closed doors.

From that day, what, almost ten years ago now? From that day on, they, the graduates of Ohtori Academy, the Duelists, had been bound to Tenjou Utena and to each other, even though they had gone their separate ways. And so Saionji hadn't been surprised to find the invitation announcing Utena's engagement to Himemiya Anthy, sealed with the rose crest, and they had all traveled, no matter the distance, to attend the engagement party in Seattle.

No, it had been exactly ten years since Utena had dueled Akio. Ten years to the day.

The couple of the hour stopped by, and for a moment, they looked exactly as they had been then, Duelist and Rose Bride, but the impression was fleeting. Had Utena changed? Were her eyes sharper, softer? She wore the intervening years like a scarf wrapped around her shoulders, but in some way, she hadn't changed a bit. And Anthy was as inscrutable as ever.

"Please, forgive us. It has taken so long to speak with all the guests." They exchanged a look, Utena squeezing Anthy's hand.

"We need to catch up! I want to know what you've all been up to."

And then they moved on, Utena having spotted her best friend from school. Saionji knew Shinohara Wakaba better than he would've liked to admit, and she was a sweet girl, but… sweet. She needed nothing to do with the likes of him.

When in the evening did he start drinking? Not like everyone else was, because they were adults and it was a party in a bar, but drinking to get drunk. He had just been thinking that there was a point at which fashionably late became unfashionably rude. It was a moment to which he was completely attuned and of which he was completely unaware. And if he had realized what was happening, he might have done otherwise, because that was the point when everything that happened that night became inevitable.

"So, old man."

And then _he_ was there, leaning against the table, drink in one hand, eyeing Saionji's hakama and haori, a smile playing across his lips, bitter and cruel. In retrospect, it was alarming how little he had changed. And he still smelled like roses.

"Miki, Juri. I haven't seen you all in so long."

Ten years ago, Miki would've been the one to speak, but now he was silent.

"Utena and Anthy came by a moment ago. And I think your sister's here somewhere." Juri looked as if she could've hit Touga.

"Of course, Nanami would never miss a party, even if it wasn't hers. Well, I should go pay my respects." And he moved off.

Every moment, Saionji knew where Touga was, couldn't help but know where he was, drank to try to erase knowing. Juri, having said everything she had to say to the other duelists, went to go stand by the bar and talk to someone else about something else. Miki said nothing, and at some point vanished unnoticed for parts unknown.

The evening wore on, and the guests started to drift away. Across the room, Touga was talking with some girl, one of Anthy or Utena's American friends, probably. He touched her hair. They leaned towards each other, kissed. She giggled, pulled away, but not too far. For a moment—had it just been his imagination? —Saionji thought that Touga looked right at him, while whispering something into the girl's ear. They left together and Saionji followed them.

He didn't care that he stood out. He didn't care that Touga probably knew that he was there—was sure, fleetingly, that he knew. He was aware, dimly, of getting a lot of strange looks, but he was too drunk to actually process the information.

The hotel was only a few blocks away, and he followed them up to the room, standing in the hall for some time, he didn't know how long, before pounding on the door. Touga answered, shirt already undone, hair already a mess. He didn't look surprised. He didn't invite Saionji in, but he didn't try to stop him, either.

The girl was sitting on the bed, looking disheveled. The instant she saw Saionji, she hastily got herself together and fled.

He was yelling. He didn't know what he was yelling, and later he recalled, vaguely, that it was something like, "What do you think you're doing?" and he wasn't sure what he'd meant by that.

At first, Touga acted as if the man standing in his hotel room screaming at him was a thing of mild curiosity, but at some point, Saionji must've said something that hit a nerve, he didn't know what, because it turned into a fight, and then the fight had gotten physical, and then it hadn't really been a fight. After that, things blurred into one another and slid into darkness.


	2. The Morning After

Saionji woke up lying on the floor of a hotel room that he remembered only hazily, body aching, head pounding. He crawled to the bathroom and threw up, half from the hangover and half out of disgust at the indistinct memories of the night before that were flitting across the backs of his eyelids. He stayed crouched in the corner of the too-bright bathroom, eyes squeezed shut, until the room stopped spinning. He stood up carefully, leaning against the wall, and staggered out to the sink. There was a note taped to the mirror.

Checkout is at 11. Everything's settled with the front desk, just let them know when you leave.

The note wasn't signed, but a signature wasn't necessary. Saionji pulled it down and stared at it. He knew that stationary it was written on. He set the note down beside the sink and went to go stand under the shower until he felt either more or less numb, whichever happened first.

The rose crest stationary. So. Touga had gone back to Ohtori. He should've known from the start, of course.

Getting dressed, traditional attire seemed like remarkably less of a good idea than it had when he'd made the decision. Was putting on the same clothes from the night before always this humiliating, or had Touga found some way to twist that knife further? Saionji didn't know, and his head still hurt too much to figure it out.

He grabbed the note from where he'd left it beside the sink on his way out. There was no reason whatsoever to stick around.


	3. If You Were Honest

If you were honest, really totally honest, which you never are…

But you're trying, now, sitting on the airplane, only halfway pretending to be asleep. Sometimes you really are asleep.

But if you were being honest, you would admit that you have a pretty clear recollection of last night. You were drunk, sure, but not that drunk. If you'd been that drunk, you probably would have spent the night puking into a toilet.

And, if you were being honest, you would admit that, on some level, getting drunk was an excuse to do the things you'd always sort of wished you'd done. Not that you don't regret it, because you do. You regretted it while it was happening, even, just not enough to stop. And that was when you were drunk. You're sober now, and much more capable of cursing your own poor judgment.

So you were right, weren't you, when you used think the worst about yourself. All that time, acting like a saint, pretending that when you didn't, it was just a mistake, a momentary thing, telling yourself that you knew better. And after that, when you would go back and say it was all too harsh. But the whole time, you knew what a monster you really were.

No, you were too easy on yourself. Because if you were honest, you would admit that what happened last night wasn't just a matter of picking the wrong person, or losing your temper, or failing to live up to some ideal of virtuous chastity that you're pretty close to letting go of anyways. No, if you were being honest, you might realize that as much as you might regret the moral failings of getting drunk, of getting angry, and of, let's be honest, getting into bed with Touga, there was something worse.

And that's where you stop being honest. Even now, you're too weak to really face the truth. So you go back over the little things, over and over. You regret those. And maybe, if you regret it hard enough, it'll be enough, and you'll never have to admit that those are the little things. Because that would mean admitting that there's something to compare them to, something that isn't little.

Of course there isn't.


	4. Fate

There was a space of time when I wouldn't have been able to endure it. Five years ago, it would have pushed me over the edge that I had been fast approaching.

I joined the military almost directly out of school. That was a mistake.

I stuck with it and stuck with it, and it was like a dull, pounding ache. It fed the worst of me; the harshest, the cruelest, the most unforgiving. The fact that I didn't mind, that I relished in the strict discipline and oppressive control; that was the most dangerous part. That was why I would spend hours staring at my hands, wondering what it was that I had done, who it was that I had hurt.

Five years. Five years, and I knew that if I did not change something, I was bound to end my own life. So, in a last act of desperation, I fled. I didn't tell anyone, didn't make any preparations, just got on a train and left.

I was lucky. I didn't know what I was doing, or why, but by chance, I did the single best thing I could have done. Even though it left a mess behind, a mess that still comes back to me from time to time.

Discipline is not a single body. There is the discipline of control and the discipline of order. The discipline of locking things in place and the discipline of knowing the places of things. The discipline of the concrete and the discipline of the sublime. The discipline of war and the discipline of peace.

I won't pretend to know that one is right or the other wrong. I can't even say that making the choice that I did wasn't a kind of failure. All I know is that one almost killed me, and the other saved my life.

I hadn't known where I was going until I got there. Something, some memory, must have prompted me to leave the train when that stop was called. Something must have led my feet down the sidewalk to that place. But it was something that was alien to me. Perhaps it was the thing called "fate."

I found myself at the gate of the shrine that had once been very familiar to me. When I was born, my name was written on a scroll that still rests somewhere within that shrine. When I was five, my well being had been dedicated to that shrine. Later, that shrine had been one of the places I would go when I wasn't going home. And now, out of gratitude, if nothing else, it is that shrine to which I am once more dedicating my fate.


	5. A Wary Distance

Returning to his apartment in the less-fashionable outskirts of Shibuya, Saionji set the note, the evidence of Touga's return to Ohtori, on the counter. He neither threw the note away not carried it with him. When he had time, he would turn some attention to it, but until then, he maintained a wary distance from it.

It wasn't often that he had time, though. Returning to school after a five-year stint in the military—one which had ended in disappearance and a dishonorable discharge, at that—and three years of doing very little—though it was, perhaps too mercifully, generally referred to as a period of apprenticeship—wasn't an easy matter. There were classes and studying, and while Saionji had never found those especially challenging, eight years was a long time in which to forget things. He still practiced kendo from time to time, but he couldn't have taken an active role in any sort of club.

Even with the support he was receiving, he'd taken a part-time job at a convenience store. He always worked at not yelling at the customers. Mostly, he succeeded, though his manner was anything but friendly. And the times he didn't succeed were infrequent enough that he'd only gotten a sharp reprimand from his manager.

It was a difficult schedule. Yet, even though he tried very much to make allowances for himself, Saionji felt that he should have been able to make it work. Even though he knew that "could" and "should have been able to" were very different things. Even though the latter had a tendency to get him into trouble.

Most days he was tired. Maybe too tired to keep going for two more years like he needed to. Definitely too tired to go digging up ghosts from his past. But he always thought that he should've been able to handle it. And yet, he was still surprised, more often than not, when he could.

So it was a while before he really got back to the note, and to what it meant. He was tempted to dismiss his immediate conclusion as over-analysis. After all, Touga could have gotten the stationary anywhere. Anthy could have given it to him. It could even have been the hotel's stationary. It was just a piece of paper.

And, to be honest, he would have liked nothing more than to have no reason whatsoever to think back to that night. Juri could say what she liked about the "twenty-first goddamn century," he still hated the lapse in discretion he'd allowed himself to make.

But as much as he might have wanted to, Saionji couldn't just brush the whole matter aside. He knew Touga too well, despite how long as it had been since they had last been in contact with one another. A lot of what Touga said was empty posturing, and it didn't leave a lot of room for real communication. If there was one thing that had put an end to the death throes of their friendship, it had been that. Touga would leave too many important things unsaid, and at some point, Saionji had stopped going through the effort of dragging them out of him.

The thing was, if there was something Touga really wanted to get across, this was how he would do it: in the eminently deniable implications of a passive-aggressive note. In fact, he might very well have arranged the whole night just so that Saionji would see his handwriting on the Rose Crest stationary in the morning.

In that case, Saionji thought he had every right to be angry with Touga. If there was another reason that the two were no longer friends, that was it. Touga did what suited him, with no regard for who got hurt along the way. Or maybe Touga had decided that Saionji should hate him, and when someone as manipulative as Touga was wanted to be hated, it was only a matter of time until they were.

Saionji knew all of these things. He told himself all of these things. Yet what remained was worry, called into being by a sense of loyalty that had long, long outlived the time when it was due.

In all likelihood, the note meant absolutely nothing. Even if it was intentional, he owed Touga nothing or less than nothing. Saionji had every reason to get rid of the note and forget that it had ever existed.

And yet…

And yet…

Ohtori. Touga had gone back to Ohtori. Saionji had some idea what that meant, and it was terrifying.


	6. Limit

The Rose Bride. The Castle Where Eternity Dwells. The Ends of the World.

So many lies. So many layers of deception. And when you finally left, when you finally found a way out, (or at least, when Utena found it) there was one more underneath, lying in wait.

The Ends of the World.

The funny thing about that name is how literal it is. The Ends of the World isn't Akio, and it isn't Ohtori; it isn't the truth and it isn't the lies. It's the last deception, the lie that revealing a lie also reveals the truth.

It isn't Ohtori that is Akio's power, his domain, the source of his strength—and Anthy's as well? —it's the line between the two, the border between Ohtori and the outside. It's the ring laid around the Academy and all that entails. It's believing in that line. It's thinking that you can leave.

You aren't out of this yet. Maybe there's a way out, a limit to his control, but it's invisible to you. You're not sure what that means, or if it means anything. You'll keep looking, though, even if you don't trust what you can see.

Did the others make it? Did they find a way out of this final deception, or were they caught as well? Was it this that pulled Touga back to Ohtori? Was it this that made Anthy seal the engagement announcements with the Rose Crest? How much of your suffering is because of this? How much does this poison all of your lives? How much of your suffering is because of this? And how much has nothing to do with it?


	7. Catching Up

Saionji wasn't expecting the call from Juri. He was under the impression that her association with her fellow former Duelists was one of begrudging obligation, and that she never would have sought any of them out of her own accord, himself perhaps least of all.

But call she did.

"So, I heard we're practically neighbors."

"I'm afraid that I don't know what you're referring to."

"Miki told me you're in Shibuya, studying at Kokugakuin. We should catch up sometime."

Saionji had no idea how Miki knew where he was living, and he was hardly excited by the prospect of meeting Juri for drinks some evening, as she proposed. But she was so insistent that eventually, he ran out of polite means of declining the invitation, and ended up agreeing to meet her.

The venue that Juri had chosen was not one where Saionji would have found himself under regular circumstances, for a number of reasons. Perhaps foremost, he didn't really drink. It wasn't a matter of absolute prohibition, just a habit. Secondly, despite living in what was arguably the heart of Japanese fashion, Saionji never concerned himself with style or trendiness, whereas this establishment seemed to be the height of both. And finally, it was rare for Saionji to find himself anywhere besides his apartment, the Academy campus, or the convenience store where he worked. He simply didn't go out.

Juri had insisted on buying him a drink, and when he had tried to refuse, failing in the process of refusal to specify exactly what drink he was turning down, so Juri had chosen something he couldn't have possibly identified, which he proceeded to eye warily without so much as touching. The room was noisy with music and the voices of other patrons, and Juri spoke loudly and animatedly, showing no regard for her companion's lack of enthusiasm.

"I was offered a chance to do some work on Ohtori's uniforms, you know. Seems the children of the rich and famous have had enough of the world's most unflattering shade of toothpaste green. We had it lucky, didn't we, with the Student Council uniforms?"

Saionji wasn't inclined to think of anything having to do with the Student Council as having been fortunate.

"I turned it down, though," Juri continued. "I'm not really a designer, more of a manager." She sipped her drink, a martini.

"You've kept in touch with Miki?" Saionji had to repeat himself twice in order to be heard.

"Well, I've tried to, but he's gotten incredibly clandestine all of a sudden. I don't really know what he's been up to, only that he mentioned you in the same breath as some sort of security clearance. Seems you've had a pretty illustrious career."

Saionji scowled. "It's not something I set out to do."

"Speaking of which, what happened with you and Touga after the party? I heard you followed him out of there."

"Nothing happened. You heard wrong."

"Oh, come on!" Juri laughed. "You didn't exactly blend in, dressed like you were. What happened?"

"It doesn't concern you."

"Ah! I thought so. I've thought so for about thirteen years, actually. What now?"

"Nothing."

"Really? That's kind of cold. I thought you two were closer than that."

"What about you and… what's-her-name?"

"Shiori?" Juri shrugged. "We went out for a little while, but then we just drifted apart. I guess that in the end, we wanted completely different things from life."

Saionji doubted that it was really that simple, but unlike Juri, he knew when to drop a topic of conversation.

"I've seen a few people since then, mostly in the fashion industry, but nothing's gotten very serious. What about you?"

"I'm sorry, I've got class in the morning. It's been a pleasure to see you, but I really must be going now."

Juri scowled, looking more like her old self than she had all night. "You're going to be as hard to get a hold of as Miki, aren't you? What, are you afraid of being seen with me?"

"I assure you, it's nothing of the sort." Saionji thought that would have been much more sensible put the other way around. "I really do have class in the morning."

She made a derisive noise. "Well, have a nice life."

He inclined his head in a gesture of respect. "And to you as well, Miss Juri."


	8. Traced in Absence

I don't really care to dwell on my love life. Not because there hasn't been one, mind, just because it's never gone very well. I've received more than my fair share of feminine attention, especially in high school. And as time went on, I took a few girls up on their offers. But none of those relationships ever lasted, and given their brevity, they generated an incredible volume of vitriol.

At the moment, there's no one, and it's been a long time since I sought a girl out. Nor do I have any particularly close friends. I'm on pleasant terms with a number of my peers, but nothing more. I don't go out. I don't confide. I tell myself that it's a solitude born of choice, and maybe it is.

But by choice or otherwise, there is a place in my life traced in absence. And at last, I have seen it. What now?

Would I risk something, going back to Ohtori? Would I risk entrapment? Or would I risk the betrayal of a memory?

And if I did not go, could I erase this absence in my life? Could I fill it as other people fill it, without undue concern, ignoring the fact that whatever I find would be an imperfect match to which I would put it?

Or will it drive me, even to my grave?

Can I ever really leave the past behind?


	9. A Stranger Calls

It was late at night, so late that the night seemed disconnected from the day. Saionji sat up studying for a test, working his way steadily through piles of notes scrupulously organized by some arcane principle born of the late hour and his impulse to keep them in piles.

The phone rang.

He stared towards where it sat, halfway across the room. It kept ringing.

Who would call, at this hour? It was far too late for a social call, or a call from work, or a telemarketer. And he couldn't think of anyone who would call him in an emergency. He went over to the phone and looked down at it as if trying to intimidate it, then picked it up.

"Saionji-sama?"

He grabbed the counter to steady himself. Hearing that voice was like hearing the voice of the dead. And with it came a flood of memories, a whole lifetime of emotions.

"Himemiya…" he whispered.

"Yes."

He slammed the phone down and stood there, knuckles going white from the force of his grip. He was awash in recollections of the boy he had been then. He could still remember that passion, that anger, that pride, that bitter contempt for himself and everyone else. He never wanted to live that again. He didn't want to be that person.

The phone rang again. He waited. It didn't stop. He paced the room, glaring at it over his shoulder. It didn't stop.

He snatched up the phone, almost shouting into it, "What do you want?"

"Do you remember," said the voice on the other end of the line, soft and sweet, "when you said that I was to be yours forever?"

"But that's not what you wanted."

"Perhaps."

"Stop this. You're engaged to Tenjou Utena."

"Yes. Goodbye, Saionji-sama."

He heard a click, and then the faint white noise of a dead line. He set the phone down.

What was she to him?

Something from another life, long buried. He had been in love, or something, with her, or the idea of her, or a thing she could be made to resemble. Or perhaps she had been a means to an end.

And now she was a stranger.

Or rather, she had always been a stranger. He had always known, in a way, even though he didn't want it to be true. It had haunted him, the way he would look into her eyes and see something hidden, unknowable. He had always hated that look in her eyes, her distant manner.

But surely, it was no longer his problem.


	10. A Certain Kind of Young Man

If one was a certain kind of young man, then a time came when school uniforms gave way to Italian silk shirts and discreetly ostentatious accessories, the routine of classes and club activities to a lofty place in the family company, and the scant forbidden indulgences of adolescence to a whole banquet of pleasures laid out before one. It was only natural.

It was probably less natural for all of this to lead one back to the Academy that one had attended through high school, but Akio had his ways. And, no doubt, a whole cadre of men in well-tailored suits at his disposal. He had always been more than he seemed, after all.

In the interim, Akio had finalized his ties to the Ohtori family, exchanging his engagement to their lovely daughter Kanae for marital vows. It had been a matter of some speculation, back in the day, as to how long he would put the marriage off. Apparently, the answer was not, as it had once seemed to be, forever.

And yet, upon meeting an acquaintance of several years prior, Akio had shown no hesitation in taking said acquaintance to his bed. It was a brazen show of dedication to the pursuit of self-satisfaction—impressive, if not entirely admirable. And one couldn't really turn it down.


	11. A Return to Ohtori

**Note: Thus ends the contiguousness of chronology. Be ye warned. Sections that are preceded by a time skip, rather than the preceding section, will be labled. Arcs will go nowhere. All these things may be fixed as the fic is finished, but I make no promises.**

On his next day off, Saionji rented a white Toyota sedan and drove to Ohtori. Setting foot on the campus, he was taken with how little the place had changed. Sunlight still shone off of the white stone walls and the air still smelled of cut grass and, of course, roses. The old walkways, the old buildings, exerted an intoxicating pull, an invitation to stray once more along the pathways that he knew so well, to come home.

Yet Saionji found that he did not really want to do this. It was a reluctance born of fear, but he could not tell which fear: that he would find everything eerily preserved, or that the places he had thought he knew would be so altered as to prove that he had never really known them in the first place.

Although he had no clear indication of where Touga would be—couldn't be entirely certain that he was even _here_, in fact—Saionji was fairly sure that the Chairman's office would be a good place to start, and so set out for that unmistakable landmark, the tower which soared over the surrounding Academy. He hadn't gotten far when he noticed a pretty young woman, too old and too well dressed to be a student, who was beckoning him over. He approached her, and she smiled in greeting.

"I believe you would be Saionji-san?"

He nodded.

"And you're here to see my husband?" She held up one slender hand, showing off an exquisite gold band.

Saionji's mind reeled. "Your… husband?"

He supposed that it wasn't impossible for Touga to have gotten married, though he'd never really been the type. But then, being married didn't mean that he was faithful. In fact, it meant that he most certainly wasn't.

The young woman laughed sweetly, and Saionji felt his throat tighten with guilt.

"My husband, the Chairman! We've been married for six years, but it still seems odd to say that."

So, she was married to Akio. Well, that wasn't much better, really, but Saionji was still relieved that at least he wasn't involved in her misery.

"So you must be…"

"Ohtori Kanae." She held her hand out once more, and he took it, politely.

She'd been in school with them, Saionji remembered, though the bare fact of it was all that he could recall about her.

"I believe there's been a bit of a misunderstanding," he began apologetically. "I'm here to see someone else, actually, an… old friend, from school."

She looked worried. "But… Akio's been expecting you. He told me to meet you here. Please, if you'd just come with me, I'm sure that the Chairman will be able to help you find your friend."

Reluctant as he was to face Akio again, Saionji realized that such a meeting was probably inevitable. Hadn't he himself been headed to the Chairman's office when he first saw Kanae? What's more, he didn't really want to upset this young woman, and she seemed so distressed at even a hint of refusal. So, with a word of consent, he followed her into the heart of Ohtori.

"You know, he married into the family, the Chairman," she said, trying to make small talk.

When she found that Saionji had nothing to contribute, she continued. "My parents always loved him. He started as acting Chairman when my father became ill, before we were even engaged."

She smiled, absently, as if remembering some happier time. "I've taken up teaching here. It's nice to be involved. Though," she hurried to add, "I could never replace him, he does such an amazing job."

She was silent, then, as they walked past the ornate greenhouse and a handful of students, who regarded the pair as one might regard a bit of statuary. Kanae spoke once more when she and Saionji entered the elevator at the base of the tower.

"Akio will be in the planetarium. He spends so much time there. He says that he'll name a star after me, some day, or a comet." She twisted her hands together. "To be honest, I'm a little bit glad that he hasn't, yet. It's embarrassing to think of him doing that for me."

"Really?" Saionji asked, without thinking. "If a man found a new star, wouldn't he always want to name it for his wife?"

She looked over at him, eyes wide with uncertainty. "Would he?"

Then the elevator chimed and the two turned, startled, as the doors slid open. They stepped out quickly.

"Akio?" Kanae called into the dim, cavernous space. "I've brought the man you wanted to see."

The Chairman's voice sounded from somewhere on the far side of the room. "Thank you, Kanae, my love."

Kanae gestured to indicate that they should proceed, and she and Saionji made their way over to the pair of white leather couches where Akio was waiting. When he came fully into sight, Saionji realized with a jolt that the Chairman wasn't alone. Sitting beside him, with an air of practiced nonchalance, was Touga.

If Saionji had thought, at the engagement party, that Touga hadn't changed, he'd been wrong. There was a hollowness to his former friend's gaze, and his customary gallant informality seemed empty of even a shred of sincerity. This, Saionji realized, was what it meant for Touga to return to Ohtori.

Akio stood as Saionji and Kanae approached, but Touga remained seated. Rushing to her husband's side, Kanae wrapped her hands around his arm and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. When he failed to reciprocate the show of affection, she faltered and then withdrew.

Akio gave her a condescending smile. "Well then, Kanae, I won't trouble you any further. I'll see you later on."

"Later on…" she repeated, and gave a weak smile before turning to Saionji. "It's been very nice to meet you."

"And you as well." He would have bowed out of respect, but being in Akio's presence put him too much on edge.

For a moment, Kanae seemed as if she wanted to say something more, but then she looked away and hurried off.

"Now," Akio fixed Saionji with a predatory look, "how may I be of service to you?"

Saionji watched Touga fixedly, but the latter refused to so much as glance in his direction, instead continuing to stare ahead blindly. "It's not you that I have business with, sir."

Akio made a show of surveying the scene, one eyebrow raised incredulously. "Well then, I'm sure our resident Academic Liaison Officer will be happy to show you to his office." The Chairman gestured to Touga. "But if there's anything you need, I'll be here."

Perhaps on command, Touga rose and swept past Saionji, headed towards the elevator. Squaring his shoulders, Saionji followed. He faltered and glanced back at Akio, only to find the Chairman smirking at him. He looked away quickly.

As Touga and Saionji descended in the elevator, neither said a word. Touga kept his eyes fixed straight ahead and gave no sign that he was aware of Saionji's presence, and Saionji contented himself to merely wait and watch.

When the elevator slowed to a halt, the doors opened to reveal a spacious office furnished in sleek leather and polished wood. It was not decorated with the same minimalism as the rest of the rooms that Saionji had seen in the tower, and it made a somewhat ostentatious, if tasteful, show of wealth.

They exited the elevator, and Touga strode over to a heavy mahogany desk. He pulled a top drawer open, and took out a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. He pulled out a cigarette and made to light it.

"You shouldn't do that," Saionji said, on impulse.

Touga fixed him with a harsh look. "Really?"

He lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and dropped the match, burning, to the floor. Saionji felt his breath catch as he watched the match fall, but thankfully, it sputtered out quickly, not even leaving a mark. As he looked up, he saw that Touga had also been focused on the match, and that he wore an expression of mild disappointment.

Touga settled himself on the desk, half sitting on it, half leaning against it. "So, I assume it _was_ me you wanted to see, old friend?"

"Of course."

Touga took a drag on his cigarette. "And what did you want to see me about?"

"The note you left on the hotel room mirror."

"Really?" He feigned surprise. "I thought it was fairly self-explanatory."

No, Saionji though, it wasn't the note. All the note had signified was that Touga was back at Ohtori. So now, speaking to Touga in Ohtori the note was rendered redundant.

"I know what it means for you to be here," he began.

"Oh, by all means, tell me how much you understand about my life," Touga interjected bitterly. "You always were so good at that."

"You never really left Ohtori. Akio's been leading you around like a dog this whole time."

Touga got up from the desk and moved to press his body up against Saionji's.

"You have no idea," he whispered in his former friend's ear.

Saionji shoved Touga away, and he backed off, smiling cruelly, his eyes showing clearly that this was something he would gladly hold over Saionji's head.

"Then what are you doing here?" Saionji asked, trying to regain his composure. He was sure that the advance was not genuine. Touga never would have gotten so close if he'd thought that Saionji would react in any other manner.

"Didn't you hear the Chairman? I'm the resident Academic Liaison Officer for my family's company. My connections to Ohtori made me perfect for the position."

"You mean your relationship with Akio?"

Touga narrowed his eyes. "I thought we had agreed that was a subject about which you know nothing." He took another drag on his cigarette.

Saionji didn't reply.

"So, what? You're here to rescue me? To offer me a car ride out of here?" Touga paused, though it wasn't likely that he really wanted and answer.

"Don't you want to get away?"

"I can leave any time. I wouldn't even have to walk, or beg a ride from someone with a rented car."

They fell silent, glaring at one another, before Touga said, "Well it's been good to see you, old friend. You should come by more often. But I'm afraid that I'm rather pressed for time at the moment."

"Of course." Saionji turned and left. He half-expected Touga to call him back, but no such thing happened.


	12. No Promises

**Note: There's some bits missing here. I was gonna try to write them, but I haven't been in a very writey mood lately, so screw it. I'm just gonna stick everything I have (and am happy with) up, and the story's not gonna make much sense. Be ye warned.**

Touga was waiting beside the car by the time Saionji got back to it. He didn't say a word about how he'd crossed the distance so quickly, just got in, leaned one elbow against the window, and propped his chin on his hand.

Saionji looked over at him. "You don't have any luggage?"

"No."

If Saionji had been as clueless as he was generally perceived as being, he would have offered to wait while Touga went back for whatever he wanted. Instead, he said nothing, started the car, and pulled away.

"I would've burned it all, if I'd had time. I wouldn't have left anything of mine there," Touga said as they wound through the parking lot crowded with cars.

"Of course." Saionji didn't stop.

Some time after they had passed through Ohtori's gates and out into the world, Touga looked over at Saionji, body suddenly tense.

"No promises," he said. "Please, no promises."

Saionji didn't take his eyes off the road. "Of course."


	13. Fourteen

Who would be proud to recall themselves at fourteen?

Fourteen is such an awkward age, all knees and elbows and empty affectation, which only becomes clear in hindsight. If one never thinks about it, one might maintain the illusion that one was as one thought oneself, that the veneer of worldly experience was not painfully thin, and that those in one's world who were not fourteen could not see through it with laughable ease.

In two or three years, the airs one puts on at fourteen might become plausible, and by twenty-seven, they are a thing that one inhabits without hesitation. And then, perhaps, one is committed to living them out. That is the way of it.

Unless, perhaps, one recalls oneself at fourteen. And perhaps there is something more, some memory or revelation, that lies in wait beside the awkwardness of that age.


	14. Fugue

For almost a week, Touga stayed in bed. He slept, mostly, or lay still and silent. When he did get up, it was for brief periods and at odd hours.

Saionji figured it was what Touga needed to do after coming from Ohtori, and left him alone, for the most part. He kept his distance. He said nothing to Touga aside from announcing his departure in the morning and arrival in the evening. Touga made no reply. Once in a while, Saionji left notes out for Touga. He had no idea whether Touga read them or not, and he made sure that it didn't really matter one way or another.

As he was already in the habit of cooking for himself, Saionji simply made sure to prepare enough for two, and left a tray where Touga would see it. He was relieved when Touga ate, and tried not to worry when he didn't.

At night, they slept side by side, but apart, without touching. Saionji wasn't sure exactly where they stood with each other, after the night of the engagement party and everything that had happened at Ohtori. But there were two things he was absolutely certain of: that now wasn't the time, and that he was going to let Touga make the first move.

So, for almost a week, the two of them lived almost as if Touga was a spirit that haunted the apartment, which neither spoke to nor touched its human inhabitant. And then, Saionji woke at some inscrutable hour, and Touga was asleep, fingers just touching the back of Saionji's hand.


	15. Traced in Memory

Had we slept like this, when we were young? Once, or a number of times? Where would we have been?

Not at my house, I only brought him there twice, both times at his insistence. The first time, he might have been merely curious. Why did I spend so much time away from home? Why didn't I ever bring him to see my family?

I tried to talk him out of it, but I failed, as I always did at that challenge. I knew the visit would go badly, and it did.

My father was displeased with everything I did while Touga was there. I was not showing my guest the proper degree of respect. I was not presenting my family with honor and the appropriate deference. He criticized everything I said and didn't say, every move I made and didn't make. Once Touga was gone, I bore the full brunt of his displeasure.

We never said a word about it, but Touga knew as well as I did that I never wanted to repeat the experience. Yet he found a way, some excuse, I no longer recall what it was. I knew what he was doing, but he had made sure that he could deny it, that whatever reason he had come up with was just believable enough, though I no longer remember what hat reason was.

I don't know if I've ever forgiven him for that.

But I'm sure that, if we slept like this when we were young, it was not at my house.

Was it at the Kiryuu home, then? Somewhere tucked inside that edifice of tall windows and carved stone?

Yet I do not recall spending much time there. Mostly, we stuck to neutral territory: to wild places and public buildings and thoroughfares.

Could it be that Touga also had some reason to not go home?


	16. In the Courtyard

Upon coming home the next day, Saionji found Touga in the courtyard with the landlady, holding an assortment of gardening implements while the landlady tended to her plantings. She waved him quiet as her tenant approached, and Saionji knew that meant a secret. With the landlady, it was surely well intentioned enough, but with Touga, it would be foolish to assume as much. Saionji sighed in exasperation.

"Was your day that tough, old man?" Touga asked, flashing a conspiratorial grin at the landlady, who pretended to be preoccupied with the gardening.

"I'm glad to see you up and about." But not, Saionji refrained from adding, glad to see him up to his usual habits of charming every woman he came across out of her wits, starting with the landlady.

He took his leave of the two of them respectfully and headed up to his apartment. Out of the corner of his eye, Saionji saw the landlady take the gardening tools from Touga and send him off. Touga caught up to Saionji as he was unlocking the apartment door. Saionji knew that the amiable way Touga leaned against his shoulder was too good-natured to be honest, and his spine stiffened.

When they were inside, Touga pinned Saionji against the back of the door, without any real force, and kissed his throat.

"You should trust me more, old friend."

Saionji wasn't particularly inclined to agree, but the next time he tried to pay rent, the landlady refused to accept.

"No, no. It's been taken care of."

She would not give any details, but Saionji knew this meant that Touga had made an arrangement to cover the expense.


	17. A Stranger Calls, Reprise

When Saionji got home one evening, Touga informed him that someone had called, repeatedly, only to hang up the instant he answered.

"Have you gotten yourself wrapped up in an affair, old man? I never thought you had it in you."

Saionji scowled. "Whereas you never even thought twice."

It took until late that night for Saionji to realize exactly how vicious the retort had been, during which time Touga refused to speak to or even so much as look at him. When the understanding dawned upon him, he sought Touga out where he sat motionless in the darkened apartment living room and sat down beside him.

Quietly, he said, "I'm sorry."

Saionji felt as if he should have made some sort of reparations, but did not know the language by which such things might be spoken. They sat like that for awhile, silent, islands to themselves. Then Touga replied.

"I know."

He ran his hand up Saionji's bare arm.


	18. Scratches

Saionji didn't know where exactly he'd gotten the idea for a cat, but when he spoke to the landlady about it, she was delighted and spent almost an hour telling him about a cat she'd had when she was young. And from that point on, it seemed like it would have been pointless not to get one.

Likewise, the choice of a particular cat wasn't a thing he paid any attention to—sleek, black, full-grown, fine—but once the cat was home, it was as if some small part of the world had finally been put right. Touga never spoke to the cat, but it wasn't for want of affection. Saionji talked to the cat and it ignored him; Touga said nothing to the cat and the two were hardly ever apart.

Saionji did not begrudge the cat this closeness, nor did he begrudge being the one to feed and care for the cat. He was glad, merely, that Touga had something to love without complication. He was glad that he could look over, from time to time, and see the two of them completely occupied with one another.

"You can see that someone owns a cat," the landlady had said, "by the scratches on their arms and hands. And you can tell if they're a cat person by the way they react to those scratches."

It was Touga whose hands were marked. When Saionji asked him about it, he laughed in mild, surprised amusement.

"We were just playing," he said.


	19. And Indecent Proposal

The phone rang. The hour was late, long past the time when any reasonable person would have called, and when he answered, Saionji dreaded hearing Anthy's voice crackling over the distance of an ocean.

It was Kanae.

"Please, meet me somewhere. I just want to talk."

He almost scolded her for making such a proposal to a man who was not her husband, but then he recalled that the man she was married to was Ohtori Akio. It seemed cruel to ask a woman to behave with propriety when the knowledge that her husband did not do the same was a well-established fact.

"Couldn't we talk like this, over the phone?"

"I'm sorry. I've asked too much of you."

"No! Wait!"

Was it his imagination, or could he hear, across the line, Kanae holding her breath?

"Where do you want to meet?"

She named a place, a tea shop not far from a train station that they could both reach easily. They worked out the time hesitantly, neither of them really wanting to name the prior obligations they were working around. When the matter was settled, they fell silent, neither making the move towards hanging up. For his part, Saionji could not forget that there was fault with what they had arranged, and felt as if, so long as they were still in a position to cancel the plans, there was still some chance of avoiding wrongdoing.

And Kanae? Did she, too, regret the imprudence of her actions? Or was she merely so lonely that she was afraid to relinquish even the slimmest thread of connection to another person?

At last, she said, "I'm very grateful to have spoken with you tonight," and Saionji heard the line go dead.

Laying the phone back in its holder, Saionji saw Touga watching him.

"Who was that?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

Touga leaned closer, eyes narrowed. "Really?"

"Really."

Saionji turned and walked away, still feeling Touga's glare fixed on his back.


	20. The First Disappearance

The first time Touga vanished, Saionji came home one evening and the apartment was empty. He checked every room, twice, as if Touga were merely a book or a set of keys that could be mislaid. Then he told himself that Touga had probably just been restless, had probably gone out to feed his desires for extravagance and attention.

In the morning, he was sure that Touga must have shared some girl's bed for the night, a girl chosen for nothing so much as her capacity to worship someone who was essentially a stranger. When he left, Saionji made sure that there was food in the fridge and a note on the counter, not allowing the slightest hint of the disapproval he felt to sneak into the gesture. There would be no point in starting a fight.

When he came back in the afternoon, Saionji yelled at the cat when it greeted him at the door, because it never greeted him at the door. It was always too busy following Touga around. The cat ran away and hid under the coffee table.

Yelling at the cat wasn't fair, and he knew it wasn't fair, and he regretted having done it. The cat was just a cat, it didn't have the power to make someone stay or leave, even if Saionji wanted it to have that power, or used it to that end. He spent two hours on his hands and knees, trying to apologize to the cat.

The cat stared back at him with wide, green-gold eyes, blinking slowly. He had no idea what it was thinking. If it had been Touga, he would have been pleased that Saionji would be desperate enough to beg forgiveness after having been baited into losing control. Because no one was ever angry with Touga unless he wanted them to be.

Saionji gave up on the cat before he had the chance to go back to blaming it for things it couldn't have done.

The next day, Saionji didn't make it to class.

He wondered if this was what Touga had meant by "no promises": that one day, without warning, he would be gone.

But in a certain sense, he wasn't really gone. The apartment was littered with signs of his presence; still-rumpled sheets, clothes, a whole shelf of jars and bottles in the bathroom, dirty cups, the cat with its demands for attention. Saionji found them one by one, and the way he regarded them, automatically, made him aware, in stages, that he was still living his life around the assumption of another person, now absent from the space that created.

He didn't know which was worse: having no idea where Touga was or having a very strong suspicion that he knew exactly where Touga was. He changed his mind on the subject at least twice a day. Was there any place more dangerous, more toxic, more damaging than the sunny courtyards and arcaded hallways of Ohtori Academy? Was there anything more willfully self-destructive than going back?

The days passed, and Saionji once more acclimated himself to living alone. He no longer announced his departure in the morning or arrival in the evening, as the cat seemed indifferent to such things, and there was no one else to hear. He no longer moved about the space as if making room for someone else. He fell once more into myriad little habits that he had formed in the time before Touga had arrived.

The apartment returned to the state of neat orderliness that isolation afforded him. The bed was made, the dishes washed. Touga's belongings were contained and set aside, with no one to use them and leave them lying about. Only the cat remained.

And then, Saionji opened the door one evening and the cat didn't greet him.

Touga was back. He was slouched in the chair, turned away from the door, staring at the wall. The cat sat five feet away, ears pricked, tail curled around its feet. It looked from Touga to Saionji and back again, every part of its body aside from its head and the tip of its tail held perfectly still.

Saionji wanted to rush forward, wanted to take Touga by the shoulders and dig his nails in out of relief and fear and desperation. He wanted to make Touga tell him where he'd been and promise that he would never, never disappear again.

"I'm home," Saionji said hesitantly. He got no response.

It wasn't pride than held him back, but resignation. He could've done all that, but it wouldn't have gained anything. He could make Touga speak, but he couldn't put an end to the silence that had settled over him. He could tell Touga how worried he had been, but he couldn't make him believe that it mattered. And he could probably extract a promise from Touga, but that was guaranteed to end badly.

The swell of gratitude that Saionji had felt upon Touga's return ebbed away, leaving nothing in its wake but a sense of helplessness.


End file.
